


The Holiest

by merle_p



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Healing, Historical, M/M, Making Up, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vienna, fin de siecle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 07:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19372198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: So when Aziraphale hears, through the grapevine, that an exorcism is supposed to happen on New Year’s Eve in Major Gruber’s flat, he knows that despite his general distaste for exorcisms, this is where he is going to be, on the slim chance that the demon Major Gruber and his spiritist friends have found is the same one Aziraphale appears to have lost.





	The Holiest

**Author's Note:**

> This is a missing scene, if you will, that captures the first meeting between Aziraphale and Crowley after their heated argument about holy water in 1862. I suppose it's technically canon-divergent, though, if only because the two are somewhat more in touch with their feelings here, despite their best attempts at denial.

The door opens a small crack, and a pair of suspicious-looking eyes appear in the opening. 

“Eh – _Grüß Gott_ ,“ Aziraphale says in his rather questionable version of an Austrian dialect, adding a small wave and a friendly smile for good measure. “I am Doctor Fell.”

The door does not open any further. 

“I am here for the exorcism?” he tries, putting as much enthusiasm into his voice as he can muster. 

The man stares, apparently unimpressed. “ _Passwort_?” he asks.

“Oh yes, the password, of course,” Aziraphale says hastily. “How silly of me.“ 

He coughs. “ _Sie sollen Staub lecken wie die Schlange._ They will lick the dust like a serpent. Micah 7:17.”

“ _Na gut,_ ” the man nods, seemingly satisfied, and finally opens the door. He is wearing a servant’s livery, but that doesn’t stop him from critically studying Aziraphale from head to toe. He must decide that Aziraphale passes muster, because eventually his face morphs into a polite little smile, and he addresses him in English to Aziraphale’s relief. 

“Welcome to Major Gruber’s spiritist circle, Doctor Fell,” he says. “You are a friend of the major’s?”

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale nods, following the servant down the hallway, ornate with heavy rugs and stucco ceilings. 

“Good friends. The best.”

“You should go ahead into the salon, Doctor Fell,” the servant says and points down the hallway. “They are almost ready to start.”

 

To clarify: The Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, does not make it a general habit to attend demon exorcisms. In fact, this is the first one he has been present at since a rather disastrous and overall traumatising event in 1635. And under normal, in fact, under any other circumstances, this is the last place he would have sought out on a Sunday night in Vienna, considering that he could have been sitting instead in one of the famous Viennese coffeehouses with a slice of Sachertorte and a cup of coffee topped with copious amounts of whipped cream. 

To explain, then, why Aziraphale is attending an exorcism in a luxurious flat in the Josefstadt neighborhood of Vienna in December 1899, we first have to talk, very briefly, about the cherubs. 

Every year around Christmas time, the heavenly nursery sends a group of its best-behaved cherubs on a field trip to Earth, to spread some of the obligatory holiday spirit that is usually sorely missing during the cold dark season. Somebody needs to get people into the proper mood to celebrate, after all. 

The two cherubs in question ‘got lost’ on the last day of the field trip (in other words, they managed to sneak away), and the angelic instructors in charge found themselves unable to retrieve them. This would have been awkward enough without the additional fact that the two escapees spent Christmas week hidden away behind the altar at St. Peter’s Church, flashing their little cherub bits at unsuspecting churchgoers in random but increasingly frequent intervals. Aziraphale was sent to Vienna with the order to retrieve the cheeky little buggers and put a stop to the rumours spread by people claiming to have seen two naked children swinging from the pulpit in one of Vienna’s most beautiful baroque churches. 

He is quite proud to say that the extraction was executed rather smoothly, one might say even flawlessly, thanks to the fact that Aziraphale was not above bribing the mischievous cherubs with chocolate truffles. One might be inclined to call this a ‘dirty trick,’ but Aziraphale has no reason to feel guilty – cherubs are supposed to be plump and round, after all, and angels don’t get cavities. 

 

Two days later, on December 31, Aziraphale is standing in the hallway of Major Gruber’s rococo flat, giving the servant his most winning smile. 

“The salon, you said? So that’s where they – you know.” He jerks his head meaningfully and lowers his voice to a whisper. 

“Keep the demon.”

“Nah, Doctor Fell,” the servant says. “That’s where the refreshments are being served.” He lowers his voice as well. “No, the – you know what – is kept in the study, down the other end of the hallway.”

“Oh my,” Aziraphale breathes, giving his best impression of nervous excitement – which is not very difficult since he is rather feeling a bit nervous right now. 

“He’s guarded well, I am sure.”

“Don’t worry, Doctor Fell,” the servant says. “He’s trapped. You are perfectly safe.” 

“What a relief,” Aziraphale says, not bothering to hide the slight tremble in his voice. 

“And speaking of which – I was wondering, before I go to join the other gentlemen in the salon – if there is, by any chance, a place where I might be able to … you know … relieve myself?”

 

So, it is thanks to the rebellious cherubs that Aziraphale is in Vienna, although it doesn’t quite explain why he is still in town on December 31. It’s not like he particularly minds, of course – Vienna is full of beautiful architecture, good white wine, and better dumplings. There are considerably worse places to ring in the new year, and Aziraphale has seen many of them. 

Vienna, on the eve of the new century, is also one of the most influential centres of thought in Western Europe, where all sorts of interesting new ideas are bubbling, and where the proponents of scientific progress and prophets of spiritual speculation are warring with each other at every turn. On one end of the spectrum, Doctor Freud is trying to describe the human subconscious in scientific terms, and Doctor von Krafft-Ebing offers scientific explanations for certain humans’ preferences for their own sex; while on the other end all sorts of spiritualists are trying to summon the spirits of the dead and use photography to capture the auras of ghosts. They all give lectures and write treatises, challenge and contradict each other, but for the most part – with the exception of an occasional stroke of genius – they are all rather cluelessly traipsing about in the dark. 

 

Aziraphale has now entered the lavatory that the servant has so helpfully pointed out to him. It’s a pretence, of course, but it also gives him the opportunity to dab his sweaty forehead with a damp cloth and contemplate, for a brief moment, the tense pale grimace of his face that is staring at him from the mirror. 

When he cannot find an excuse to drag out the break any longer, he carefully opens the door and peaks out into the deserted hallway. The servant is nowhere to be seen. Sounds of piano music and laughter are floating down from the direction of the salon, which Aziraphale registers with satisfaction. The noise will make it less likely for Major Gruber and his guests to hear whatever might be occurring on the opposite side of the flat. 

He sneaks back down the hallway the way he came, his footsteps silent on the heavy carpet. The door to what appears to be the study is locked, but that doesn’t stop him very long. He puts his hand on the handle, closes his eyes, and takes a second to simply _hope_. Then he pushes the door open and carefully tiptoes inside. 

 

Alongside the séances, the hypnosis, and the ghost photography, there is another practice, much older and more obscure, that is suddenly once again _en vogue_ : amateur demonic exorcisms. 

Generally speaking, Aziraphale is not any more interested in _fin-de-siècle_ exorcisms than he has been in any other kind of exorcism since the 17th century (see 1635), despite the fact that the modern exorcism involves significantly less actual torture and considerably more chanting and holy water. 

The thing is: Since 99 percent of suspected demonic possessions are not, in fact, actual demonic possessions, the consequences for the usually utterly human victim amount for the most part to wet hair and two years of therapy with Doctor Freud to cope with the emotional scarring. Which is certainly unpleasant but far less painful than actual torture. Aziraphale can attest to both. 

And there is not much reason for Aziraphale to intervene in the 1 percent of cases when a lucky (or perhaps unlucky) soul manages to trap a real demon. With the reputation he has among the majority of demons these days, the chance is high that any hand he might consider extending in assistance would be bitten … likely even in a literal sense. 

So Aziraphale’s official (and unofficial) position towards exorcisms is that on the whole, he tends to avoid them all. 

Except, of course, that he has not heard from Crowley in a while. Has not heard from him, to be precise, since their last ill-fated encounter in St. James Park in 1862, when Crowley asked for a favour in the form of holy water, and Aziraphale yelled at him and tossed his secret note into the water before they both walked away from each other in a huff. 

The silence between them is not all Crowley’s doing. For the rest of the 1860s, Aziraphale avoided Crowley, still inexplicably angry at his friend for making such an outrageous request. The absolute last thing he wanted was to become an accessory to Crowley’s suicide; in fact, he would do everything he could to stand in the way of such a plan. He was determined to tell Crowley all this in great detail the next time he and the demon crossed paths. 

At some point in the 1870s, however, Aziraphale started to become concerned. It wasn’t the first time they had gone without seeing each other for a decade or so, but usually Aziraphale was at least aware of Crowley’s whereabouts, knew where to find him if he had to. But for the remainder of the 19th century, it seemed as if Crowley had simply disappeared, as if the ground had opened and swallowed him up. 

(Aziraphale really, really hoped that that was _not_ what had actually happened, because he rather disliked the idea of having to venture all the way to the basement to find out where Crowley had gone. For one thing, he strongly suspected that such a trip would be _hell_ on his new velvet jacket.)

Long story short, Aziraphale has not seen Crowley since 1862, and it has been a boring, miserable, _lonely_ four decades. In fact, it has been more than long enough for Aziraphale to come to the realisation that perhaps he might have made an awful, terrible mistake. 

So when Aziraphale hears, through the grapevine, that an exorcism is supposed to happen on New Year’s Eve in Major Gruber’s flat, he knows that despite his general distaste for exorcisms, this is where he is going to be, on the slim chance that the demon Major Gruber and his spiritist friends have found is the same one Aziraphale appears to have lost. 

 

The room is suspiciously silent, and Aziraphale blinks, trying to get his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He can just barely make out different pieces of furniture … a desk, bookshelves, something that may or may not be a globe. 

His breath catches when he notices the lump in the middle of the room, roughly the size of a person curled up in the foetal position on the floor. The lump is entirely motionless. Aziraphale flicks the gas lamp on with a snap of his fingers. 

The person lying on the floor slowly lifts his head. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says. He sounds … relieved. Hesitant. And utterly exhausted. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighbourhood,” Aziraphale says, a little alarmed by the ashen tone of Crowley’s skin and the deep shadows under his eyes. Someone must have taken his glasses away, because his yellow eyes are unprotected. 

“Cherub-retrieving duty.”

“Oh yeah, _that_ ,” Crowley says, with a barely-there flicker of his usual smirk. “Funny little critters. We chatted a bit, traded stories about Gabriel, you know? Next thing we know, their group had moved on without them and we couldn’t find them anywhere.”

“So that was your doing?” The cherubs had not in fact mentioned running into a demon, but somehow Aziraphale is not at all surprised.

Crowley shrugs. “Hey, I told them the best thing to do would be to find a church and wait it out, and someone would come and get them sooner or later. Looks like that worked out for them alright.”

Aziraphale grimaces. “Yes, well, they were passing the time by exposing themselves to the faithful at St. Peter’s.”

Crowley laughs quietly, a faint little huff. “Huh. That I did not tell them to do, although perhaps I should have.” He looks almost impressed. 

“So how did you manage to catch them then?”

“Chocolate,” Aziraphale admits, and now Crowley smiles for real. 

“Smart choice,” he says. “’S always worked for me when I needed to lure an angel.”

Aziraphale does very steadfastly and most definitely _not_ blush. 

“Well, we have to get you out of here,” he says. “They are getting about ready to start the exorcism.”

“Uhm, about that,” Crowley says, and nods towards the ground at the reddish-black lines of the summoning circle keeping him in place. 

“Is that blood?” Aziraphale exclaims in faint horror. 

“Sheep’s blood, or so I’ve been told,” Crowley nods. “They are actually rather serious about their stuff. I suppose I should be glad you showed up when you did.”

“How did you manage to end up in here anyway?” Aziraphale asks, while smudging the outline of the circle with a magical sweep of his foot. If he is putting a little more force than strictly necessary into the movement, well, no one is going to notice.

“It was an accident,” Crowley mutters darkly. “Was a little distracted.”

“Distracted?” Aziraphale repeats incredulously, and then immediately closes his mouth in shame when Crowley shoots him a meaningful look. 

Ah yes. Likely about as distracted as Aziraphale has been, these past few decades. 

“Well, I _was_ here to convince the major that stealing from the Austrian military to cover his gambling debt was not a terrible idea,” Crowley says, a little petulantly. 

“Took a step backwards, and there it was. He was about as surprised as I was.” He shakes his head. “How was I to know that he was keeping a demon-summoning circle underneath the Persian rug in his office. I mean, who does that anyway?” 

Aziraphale looks away. “I used to have one, you know.”

Crowley scoffs. “You are an actual angel, and if I remember correctly, you got rid of yours at some point in the 13th century. He’s a dim-witted unimportant army officer with a rather peculiar hobby.”

Aziraphale carefully studies the remaining traces of the circle.

“You should be good to go,” he says, only to have Crowley pull up his shoulders awkwardly. 

“I may need some help.” 

“What happened?” Aziraphale asks anxiously. “Did they torture you?” 

“No, they didn’t torture me,” Crowley grumbles, but he also doesn’t make any effort to actually get up. 

So Aziraphale steps into the broken circle and bends down to slip an arm around Crowley’s back. 

“Here,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you.”

With the angel’s help, Crowley staggers to his feet, swaying lightly. This close up, he feels very warm, almost feverish, and Aziraphale can see a slight sheen of sweat covering his face. 

Aziraphale silenty thanks Major Gruber for having the foresight to buy a flat on the ground floor as they make their way slowly to the exit. The hallway is blessedly empty, and the street outside the building is equally deserted at this time of night. It is freezing but Aziraphale welcomes, for the moment, the sharp sting of cold fresh air. 

Crowley leans heavily against his side and is suspiciously quiet. 

“You know,” Aziraphale says lightly, to distract himself from his growing concern. “The dashing rescue at the last minute is usually more your style.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Glad you noticed,” he says. His voice sounds like perhaps it was meant to be flirtatious, or maybe sarcastic, even just lightly joking, but it ends up being neither of these things, and that’s what makes Aziraphale turn towards him and look more carefully this time. 

“What –“ He pauses, stares, and a feels a shiver run down his spine that has nothing to do with the cold. “What’s wrong with your hand?”

Crowley holds up his left hand between them into the flickering light of the street lamps. His palm is a mess, covered from fingers to wrist in an enormous blister, furiously red in parts, oozing yellowish pus in others. The edges are already starting to turn black. 

Aziraphale takes a sharp breath. “Holy water?”

Crowley nods unhappily. “A test,” he says. “Wanted to verify that the demon he’d caught was actually a live one. It was just one drop, I should be thankful for that, I suppose.”

“And you can’t make it better yourself,” Aziraphale ventures, not quite a question. 

“It’s holy water, what do you think?” Crowley snaps, and then deflates. “I can’t do anything about it. And it’s spreading, I think,” he adds. “In fact, I don’t feel so well.” 

“Oh dear Lord,” Aziraphale says in dismay, and Crowley actually winces at that, as if it is causing him physical pain. Perhaps it is. Aziraphale bites his lip. 

“Where are you staying?” he asks. 

Crowley’s head is now on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I have a room in Meidling.”

“My hotel is closer,” Aziraphale decides, and waves over the fiacre that passes down the street. The driver looks at bit suspicious when he realises the state Crowley is in, probably worried that a drunken British tourist is going to throw up all over his coach, but the rather generous advance payment Aziraphale hands him is enough to keep him quiet. 

Unfortunately, the Hotel Stefanie in Leopoldstadt is not exactly the kind of hotel where one can bring in a half-conscious male acquaintance at such late hour without anyone taking notice, so Aziraphale wraps Crowley in his magic to keep him out of sight, smiling at the night clerk as the man hands over the key to his room.

Climbing the staircase to the third floor takes a concerningly long time, and by the time they pause in front of Aziraphale’s room, Crowley is shaking all over, and white as a sheet. Aziraphale tries to steer him into the single chair by the desk, but Crowley takes one step across the threshold and then collapses onto the bed. 

They don’t have much time left. 

“Do you trust me?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley makes the effort to raise a brow at him. 

“Would I be here if I wasn’t?”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. There are other ways to go about this, but they are running out of time, and thinking straight is difficult right now. He falls to his knees at the side of the bed and takes Crowley’s injured hand into his own. Then he lowers his head and kisses the bleeding palm, putting all his feelings of compassion and kindness into the touch. 

Crowley twitches and makes a noise that does not sound at all human, somewhere between a reptilian hiss and a hellish groan. 

Aziraphale pulls back and prays, _prays_ that he hasn’t actually just made it worse. But even as he stares, the skin at the edges of the wound is starting to change. In silence, they watch as Crowley’s hand mends itself within barely ten minutes, leaving behind nothing but a faint scar in the centre of his palm. 

“How does it feel?” Aziraphale asks as he raises his head at last. 

“Ngh,” Crowley makes. He is breathing heavily. Aziraphale resists the urge to look away from the wild, raw expression on his face.

“I wasn’t sure it would work on a demon,” he admits quietly. 

“Is this going to get you in trouble?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale sighs. 

“Possibly. I doubt anyone would have noticed, though. I have warded the room.”

“Good,” Crowley nods, and Aziraphale watches as the demon carefully schools his expression into something much more neutral. 

“Wouldn’t want to get caught _fraternising_ with the enemy, now, would you?” 

It’s probably a sign of how exhausted Crowley is that it comes out a lot less ugly than he’d probably intended for it to be. It still hits far too close to home.

“I am sorry,” Aziraphale says. 

“For what,” Crowley asks. “It’s not as if you are the one who spilt holy water over my hand.”

“For the way I left things between us,” he says. “I said some unforgivable things.”

“But you are an angel,” Crowley says sullenly. “You don’t need forgiveness.”

Aziraphale swallows. “I do as a friend. And I’ve been a rather terrible one.” He laughs a little, although it is not very funny at all. “Probably a terrible angel as well.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, in an entirely different tone. There is something in his voice that the angel has never heard before, and yet it is not difficult to recognise, as it echoes the tangled emotions in his own chest. 

He looks down and realises that he is still holding Crowley’s hand. He wills himself to let go, but just as he is about to drop his hand, Crowley catches it in his own, holding tight. 

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, then down at their joined hands, then up at his friend again. 

“We can’t,” he says. It takes a lot of effort to get out the words. 

For a moment, Crowley looks _furious_ , opens his mouth as if to argue. Then he drops his head, and now he just looks resigned. 

“I know,” he says, and there is bitterness in his voice. He releases Aziraphale’s hand, and the angel tries to ignore the sense of loss. 

Aziraphale swallows. “If your people found out about this, they would punish you.”

Crowley raises a brow. “Hence me asking you for the holy water.”

Aziraphale briefly closes his eyes. “That can’t be the solution.”

“It’s not a solution,” Crowley says. “It’s an alternative.”

He sighs. “Look, I am sure you don’t want to hear this, but my side doesn’t care whether we are actually _fraternising_ or not.” He scoffs. “In fact, defiling an angel a little bit would probably be counted in my favour. My side would care about everything else – the rescues, the collaborations, the exchange of information. Telling you where I am going and why … that’s enough to mark me as a traitor.” He shrugs. “Whether there is some occasional buggery involved as well really wouldn’t make that much of a difference.” 

Aziraphale pulls a face, because it’s easier than to let himself actually think about what Crowley just said. 

“Must you be so crude?”

“What, you mean buggery?” Crowley raises his brows in challenge. “Isn’t that what we are talking about? Isn’t that what you are thinking about? I’m thinking about it, I can tell you that much.”

Aziraphale feels the heat creep up his cheeks and looks away.

“It wouldn’t be like that though,” he murmurs. 

“What?” Crowley asks, confused, and then he groans, sounding pained and fond all at once. “O _hell_ ,” he says. “Of course you would try to be a romantic about this.”

Aziraphale glowers. “Now you are just being cruel.”

“And you are a tease.”

“A tea… – I don’t want to see you die!”

“Gaah!” Crowley snarls, throwing up his hands, and that kind of puts an end to the conversation. 

Aziraphale gets to his feet and rubs his eyes with his hands. When he can see again, Crowley is trying to push himself up to standing. 

“Alright, this was nice,” he says. “A fun little exorcism. Let’s never do it again. Thanks for the rescue, but I should leave.” 

He takes two steps, then his knees give out under him, and he sinks back onto the bed. 

“No, wait,” Aziraphale says. “Don’t leave. You should stay here, get some rest.”

“ _Tease_ ,” Crowley repeats, meaningfully. 

“It’s not like that,” Aziraphale says, and he almost, _almost_ believes it. 

“Look at you, you are dead on your feet. I didn’t save you from extinction by holy water just so a horseshoe can crack your skull open because you fainted in the street. Take the bed, I won’t sleep anyway. I’ll ward the place as well as I can, you’ll be safe here.”

Crowley sighs. He looks resigned. “And I assume you’ll be creepily watching me sleep?” 

Aziraphale feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth as he moves to lock up the door. 

“Possibly,” he says. 

“I am counting on it,” Crowley says, and then quite unceremoniously passes out on the covers. 

 

Aziraphale does most definitely not watch him sleep all night. First, he takes off Crowley’s shoes, then miracles him into a more comfortable position underneath the heavy duvet. He sets up some additional wards to keep them hidden from anyone who might be interested in their whereabouts. The hotel room actually has running water, so he washes up quickly at the sink, and then digs through his luggage to find the rest of the chocolate he bought to lure the cherubs. 

Then, and only then, does he settle into the chair to study Crowley’s face, and doesn’t get up for the rest of the night. 

 

Crowley sleeps long enough for Aziraphale to get a little nervous. The demon had seemed alright last night, but Aziraphale does not actually know that much about the effects of minor holy water poisoning in demons, and he is fairly certain that there is not a single precedent for an angelic healing of such a condition in the history of the world. But the demon had looked exhausted, so Aziraphale decides it would be silly to wake him only to appease his irrational concerns. He keeps busy instead. 

By the time the mountain of blankets finally starts to tremble, Aziraphale has packed his suitcase, changed into a fresh suit, and sent downstairs for coffee and croissants. He dismisses the maid at the door, lest she get a glimpse of the sleeping demon in his bed, and carefully carries the breakfast tray towards the table when Crowley’s dark head finally appears from beneath the pillows. 

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asks, and hands him a cup of black coffee, which Crowley accepts with an appreciative nod. 

“Like I got utterly sloshed and didn’t have a chance to sober up before passing out,” he says over the rim of his cup. 

“Not too bad, overall, considering that I should be dead.” 

He drags a hand through his messy hair and sighs. “I do appreciate you being there.”

“Don’t mention it,” Aziraphale says, busying himself with pouring heavy cream into his own cup until the coffee is the perfect colour of golden brown. 

“You would have done the same.”

For a while, they just sit in almost companionable silence, drinking coffee and sharing the fresh buttery croissants. Eventually, Crowley sets aside his cup and wipes the crumbs off his face. He moves slowly but seems steady on his feet when he makes his way over to the sink. 

Aziraphale averts his eyes when he starts to unbutton his shirt. 

“Where are you headed next?” he asks into his mug. 

“South Africa, actually,” Crowley says over the splashing of the water. 

“South Africa?” Aziraphale asks, surprised, lifting his head despite his better judgment. Crowley is running a washcloth over his bare chest, leaving his wet skin glistening in the light of the morning sun falling in through the window. 

“War between the British and the Boers,” Crowley says and switches off the water. He picks up the towel from the rack and starts to dry off. Aziraphale gives up on pretending not to stare. 

“Which side are your people on?” Aziraphale asks. 

“I’m not sure,” Crowley says slowly. “They are all colonialists, of course. And perfectly capable of killing each other without my interference. Not sure it’ll matter much what I do.” 

He reaches for his shirt and shrugs it over his shoulders. “I hear they have puff adders down there though. So that’ll be fun.” His fingers make quick work of the buttons, hiding the rest of his glorious skin from view.

“How about you?”

“Mining strike in Belgium,” Aziraphale says. “I doubt I’ll be there very long.” He takes a deep breath. 

“Crowley,” he says. 

The demon looks up, curious and a little wary. “Yes?”

“Just –“ Aziraphale breaks off, and tries again. “Just give me some time.”

Crowley opens his mouth, but Aziraphale raises his hand to cut him off before he can interrupt.

“I am going to think about your insurance problem. I want – I want to help you. I will come up with something. Just please – tell me you won’t do anything stupid. And – and the other thing …” He swallows. “The other thing too. Just – just give me some time.”

Crowley looks at him intently for a moment, then he shrugs. “Sure, what’s another few decades in the grand scheme of things?” he says, but he sounds more amused than truly annoyed. 

“It’s only been thousands of years.”

“Please,” Aziraphale says again, wringing his hands. “I _promise_.”

Crowley blinks at that, then rubs a tired hand over his face. He shrugs into his coat, pulls a pair of glasses from one of the inside pockets, but doesn’t yet put them on. 

He walks to the door, puts a hand on the handle, and Aziraphale wonders, for a moment, if he’s going to leave, without another word or glance. 

Crowley turns around. 

“Here’s the situation,” he says. “This is a four-way crossroads, and I know where three of those paths lead. One, they find out about our … arrangement … and make an example out of me. Hellfire, torture, destruction, that sort of thing. Two, you give me what I asked for, and when they come, I can fight – or take the quick way out. Three –“ 

He holds up three fingers to see if Aziraphale is following. 

Aziraphale nods, because he thinks he knows where this is going. 

“Three, we play it safe,” Crowley continues. “Which means that it would really be for the best …”

“… if we never see each other again.” Aziraphale swallows. 

“Right,” Crowley nods. “You get my point. So I am going to tell you this once, and only once: either of these options sound about equally unpleasant right now.”

Aziraphale stares, blindsided. 

“And you call me a romantic,” he finally manages to say. 

“Shut up, angel,” Crowley hisses, and kisses him. 

Aziraphale lets him. There are limits even to his ability for denial. The kiss is messy, and wet, and Aziraphale is fairly certain that the tongue he feels exploring his mouth is forked. 

Before he can decide whether to properly kiss back, Crowley breaks away. He takes a step backwards and wipes his mouth, then raises his hands, palms facing out. 

Not a temptation, then, Aziraphale realises. 

Just a promise. 

“Be careful,” Crowley says. “I am sure I will see you soon.”

Then he opens the door and is gone. 

“A romantic _and_ a tease,” Aziraphale calls after him, helplessly, and he thinks he can hear Crowley laugh all the way down the stairs. 

Aziraphale closes the door to the hallway and pours himself more coffee with shaking hands before sitting down at the desk. For a moment he just stares, the he reaches for the last croissant with determination.

It’s time for him to consult his memos for the brand-new 20th century.

There must be some kind of work for an angel to do in South Africa.

**Author's Note:**

> With the exception of the naked cherubs and the demon exorcism, the stuff about Vienna at the turn to the 20th century is more or less culturally and historically accurate-ish. That is not to say that demon exorcisms didn't happen in Vienna during that era as well, I just don't have any concrete information about it.


End file.
